


Terrifying Tolkien week 2019

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Gen, Gore, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-13 01:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21235982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: ficlets based on Terrifying Tolkien week 2019 prompts!day #1: love that bleeds and bleeds and whispers “let me out”day #2: to reek; to fester in the darkday #3: a strange light in his eyeday #4: the bloody skyday #5: gemstonesday #6: round and round we goday #7: free choice





	1. tang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _day #1 prompt: love that bleeds and bleeds and whispers 'let me out'_

when it is done, he stands before his handiwork and simply – looks.

even now that the bleeding has finally slowed, stopped, there is so much of it. the floor, his hands, his tools, his clothes – all covered. all tainted with that wretched sweet-iron tang that will take much longer than these past few hours to fade – and that is if, indeed, it ever does.

still, he finds he cannot look away.

it is only a body, he tells himself. it cannot hurt him, he tells himself, and indeed, it never could, even when it was occupied. but now, its eyes cannot see him, its mouth will not frown upon him, its hands will not fly up to grasp at his robes, its tongue will not flap on as was its wont to do.

for he is like unto a god, upon these shores! no threat can reach him, no peril touch him, no plea can bend his stony heart unless he wills that it might be bent –

as it so nearly had, tonight.

when tyelpe had occupied this body, the bleeding had been hard to see. when he knew that it was tyelpe looking out at him from these blank eyes – tyelpe frowning upon him with this stern mouth – tyelpe grasping at him with these hands, tyelpe lecturingworryingpleadingscreaming with this tongue. . .

but tyelpe is not here, now, and so the bleeding does not matter quite so much.

it is only blood now, after all – it is no longer tyelpe's. for the body that was tyelpe's hangs in one corner, now, and tyelpe himself hangs in another.

"let me out. please."

sweet tyelpe! thinking, no doubt, that if he let go, then he might escape these shores. sweet, naïve, unthinking tyelpe! as if he would let something so precious to him just _depart. _

"let me out, let me go, annatar – please!"

even when it has become a shadow of its former self, tyelpe's voice is compelling. so still he is a captive, he reflects ruefully as he drifts toward him, lifting a material hand and watching with interest as it sinks through the side of tyelpe's face.

how is it that the elf still feels warm?

"let me out!"

love, tyelpe had called this, but love, it seems, bleeds just as easy and just as well as hate or rage or fear. this will prove to be a valuable lesson of some kind, he is certain of it, even though he does not quite know what it is a lesson _in. _

and still tyelpe squirms and pleads – still the body behind them bleeds – but none of that matters anymore.

he is almost certain of it.


	2. sing, sing for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _day #2 prompt: to reek; to fester in the dark_

It reeks of beast and musk and meat in the pit to which they are thrown, and Findaráto can be under no illusion about what will happen here. They will all die, in the very shadow of a tower that he himself had once erected to stand guard over the way toward his city, for all that Findaráto touches turns to ash and bone beneath his fingertips.

But his faithful ten, and Beren, are yet alive, though he cannot see them. In this fell place, even the vision of the Eldar cannot pierce the darkness, and Findaráto only knows his own by their cries of pain, Edrahil's attempts to calm and rally, Beren's harsh Mannish breathing.

In search of solace where none else can be found, Findaráto counts them out – one, two, three. . .

Wait, wait – thirteen.

There is one voice too many among them.

Findaráto tries again. Counts by sets of breathing this time. One, two, three, four. . .

And he tallies twelve sets of breath, as there should be, but –

Thirteen voices. 

He cannot see or reach any of his faithful. He cannot warn them of the danger already in their midst, unless he cares to warn their enemy too that he knows of their presence. And then the Dread Lieutenant descends among them, a very demon of flame and unlight, and everything else must be put aside for a heartbeat to Sing the hearts of his followers into silence and secrecy for their mission.

And the Dread Lieutenant simply smiles. Says that if his guest wishes to make this a game, why then he is happy to oblige!

One by one, Findaráto's faithful are compelled, such that Findaráto must choose between letting them be forced to reveal their errand or else increasing his Song within them until their chests burst from the strain of it. And so, one by one, Findaráto takes the lives of those who had given up honor and safety and comfort to follow him and his mad oath; one by one, he feels their lives slip away into the Song that has made them all.

And yet.

As each of his faithful dies, their voices join the one that Findaráto had been unable to account for. The one that had screamed without breath; the one that now joins the Dread Lieutenant in a counter-harmony against him.

And one by one, Findaráto hears the voices of his faithful dead raised against him, in dreadful parody of the very Song that had stolen their lives. Nyárë Sings of lordly bonds broken; Asëanarmo screams in counterpoint, while Edrahil burbles around the blood dripping from the hole torn in his throat.

He cannot Sing like this, in such reek and festering dark with fell arts mimicking the voices of his beloved and his faithful. But Sing he must, else –

Else what? Some Mannish crush on some Doriathrin princess will be lost, and Findaráto can take his faithful home? For the first time, his Song falters, and as if in encouragement, something brushes against his leg.

A dead hand, perhaps. His lover's, Edrahil's, by the size and weight of it.

But.

When his Song dies, so does Findaráto.

And the silence lasts for only a moment in his wake. Then, one by one, the dead voices rise again to fill it.


	3. no light, no light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _day #3 prompt: a strange light in his eye_

He cannot say where the story comes from, or indeed who tells him of it, for none of those who stood with Findekáno when the High King fell yet lives. But still – somehow, Maedhros has heard the story of his death, in all its minute detail and oh so many times.

It is the worst pain he has known, to hear it again, but it also seems the least he can do – to listen, and to nod, grim and fell, when some sympathetic bard or tight-smiling courtier whispers, _have you heard what happened to him, my lord? _For since he did not die with Findekáno, that fell day, then the least it seems that he can do is to live Findekáno's death in his lover's place –

Over and over and over again, each whispered detail one that he has already memorized but that still strikes him to the heart every time he must sit and endure the telling of it –

Over and over and over again.

He knows. He knows. He _knows_.

The gist of the telling is that Maedhros knows, with a surety as if he had been there, that a strange, mad light had entered Findekáno's eye when he had learned that he was surrounded. Maedhros knows that Findekáno broke from the ranks of his elite guard, striding forth to challenge the greatest of the Valaraukar with a stream of soldierly invectives that he could never have learned in Tirion – and Maedhros knows that the great fiery demon had laughed, and struck, and Findekáno's helm had been rent, Findekáno himself crushed into the dirt beneath his enemy's foot.

It is curious, Maedhros sometimes thinks with as much detachment as he can muster, that the bards and the courtiers know so many little details. That they can describe the tattered, blood-soaked ribbons of blue and gold – that they can enumerate how many whip-wounds, how many burns, how many bruises, his beloved had borne. It is curious enough, in fact, that sometimes Maedhros wonders whether he was ever rescued from Thangorodrim, or whether his body still hangs in that hellish torment and his mind has simply created everything about him now as a dream he can escape into.

And if that is so, Maedhros thinks distantly, then he would much prefer the unending torment of the Dread Lieutenant rending his body limb from limb, thank you, than this knowledge that Findekano never faltered, never pleaded, never screamed, even as he was trampled alive. Even as he must have thought that Maedhros had forsaken him again, and this time, without the specter of his father or a fleet of burning ships to hold them asunder from one another.

He wonders too, sometimes, what that light in Findekáno's eye had been. Whether it means that Findekáno had known himself forsaken, and had gone out to meet his foe all the same.

And eventually, Findekáno's death becomes such a part of him that Maedhros stops wondering how the report of it ever came to him at all.


	4. red sky in morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _day #4 prompt: the bloody sky_

The morn of Tarnin Austa dawns as golden as the Lord Glorfindel's hair, and it is a bright morn, a fair morn, with all Gondolin rejoicing in the long-awaited first day of summer.

It is the prince Erukano who notices the streaks of crimson first.

"Laure?" he asks his guardian, and Glorfindel, ever heedful of his favorite charge, bends his head indulgently to hear the prince's question. "I do not remember the red before, Laure?"

In the time it has taken for Glorfindel to hear his charge's question and to follow the prince's pointing finger upward, the bloody colors have spread, further and further across the sky.

No sailor is Glorfindel – he only ever trekked across a frozen sea, but never sailed one. Yet even he knows the old adage: _red sky at morning, sailors take warning _– and his heart skips a beat, then two, as he realizes what manner of storm has come to assail Gondolin.

And so it is Glorfindel's voice that shatters the merriment of Tarnin Austa, as the might of Morgoth comes pouring from the sky, from the ring of mountains, into the Hidden City.

"House of the Golden Flower, to me, to me!"

But the day is as bloody as the sky. Great are their losses, for Morgoth's attack is utterly unexpected and overwhelming – Glorfindel cannot protect Turukano, who is buried beneath the stones of his own tower, or Ekthelion, who is drowned beneath the body of a great Valaraukar in the very Fountain of the King. And the city burns, fair white marble and all, behind them as Tuor and Glorfindel struggle to lead their survivors into the hidden tunnel – and the roar of a Valarauko hidden in ambush warns Glorfindel that he will not survive this day, this fight, this summer.

And his hair is as bloody as the sky, as the city, when it is used to pull him to his death upon the rocks below.


	5. a curse upon them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _day #5 prompt: gemstones_

In later days, the tales will tell that Hurin Thalion yet lingered beneath the curse of Morgoth and so knew not his own mind when he ventured into the smoldering ruins of Nargothrond, and slew the last petty dwarf, and took from that unquiet place the Nauglamir, last and greatest treasure of the dragon Glaurung's unclean hoard.

But no, the tales of later days will tell at least that much wrong, for Hurin Thalion no longer suffers any madness when he sees the gemstones of the Nauglamir and draws them forth. He is not mad, when he stumbles from that dragon-tainted boneyard and its creeping spirits crying for their freedom; he is not mad, when he brings this treasure to Doriath and casts it before the feet of Elu Thingol, great and grey-cloaked king.

For cursed Hurin Thalion may be, but no fool is he besides. The pure white gemstones and the delicate golden chains that Findarato Felagund once so highly prized are sure to catch Thingol's eye, and then, Hurin hopes, mayhap the doom that befell Felagund will come upon Thingol and his kingdom too.

And that is least of what they deserve, Hurin thinks as he hunches before the throne of Thingol and his goddess-wife. For no gold, no gems, no tears, no cries, will bring Hurin back his son or daughter, wife or people. From his time at Morgoth's whim, Hurin knows that all he loved – his son and daughter, wife and people – were entrusted to Elu Thingol, beneath whose wretched care they perished, one and all. And cursed Hurin Thalion might be, but if he is doomed to die and rest unquiet, then he will be thrice damned if he does not take with him into perdition all who failed his loved ones too.

He can feel the whispers in the wind, when he is cast from Doriath. Something has taken notice that the Nauglamir now resides within this hidden kingdom, and its immortal king now lives on borrowed time.

And so, smiling through his rotting teeth, Hurin walks westward in search of his own grave.


	6. sting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _day #6 prompt: round and round we go_

Beleg Cuthalion does not expect much when he happens upon the group of sickly Men wandering lost near the borders of Doriath. Why, he does not even know that the little Manling with them is the son of Hurin Thalion until one of the boy’s retainers finally speaks!

Still. He might have guessed, he supposes, from the way the little Manling immediately rushes him, placing himself between the full-grown Men he travels with and Beleg as he comes upon them.

“Ow,” Beleg says mildly, staring down at the unruly mop of hair that obscures his view of his own boots. Somehow the bloody child has  _ stabbed  _ him, right through the leather and easily drawing blood. “What was that in service of, eh?”

And this becomes something of a pattern with them even when they settle in Doriath, for Túrin Turambar is not what anyone, even the most well meaning, could call a graceful child. His proportions speak of the height and stature that he will attain someday, but in the meantime, the boy stumbles and drops gear and seems to aim for Beleg’s poor beleaguered feet every time.

“It is as if you seek some vengeance against my toes, child,” Beleg tells him once, sighing ruefully as he works to stem the slight bleeding. 

At least now, he thinks, Túrin is grown enough that he looks shamefaced at the injuries he has inflicted. “I do not, Beleg, I swear upon it!”

“No swearing, if you will,” Beleg rebukes him, as mildly as he can. It has been clear from the start that the boy has some fell fate upon his head, and Beleg finds that he would rather avoid awakening it for as long as they are able, please and thank you. 

But Túrin already has a familiar mulish set to his mouth, a certain fell look within his eye, and somehow Beleg knows that it is rather too late now to avoid setting some dark thing in motion.

“Someday you will have your chance, Beleg Cuthalion,” Túrin promises, his voice more fervent than any half-grown Man’s has any right to be. “Someday you shall pay me back for every time that I have pricked your foot, and yours shall be such a cut that I never forget the sting of it.”

“Will it, now,” Beleg tells him, fighting to keep his voice steady. He does not want to pay back a few small injuries, and the portent of such revenge is alarming. Leave it to Túrin to speak retribution upon himself. . . “I will keep that in mind, I suppose. Now. Have you learned how to tie off a bandage before? No? Come here and see, then.”

This is not the last time that Túrin’s blade or his aim slip, of course, but Beleg is never greatly injured by it. 

And it is the one time that Beleg’s aim falters - the time he pricks Turin’s foot while cutting him free - that Turin’s aim is straight and true, and his wild eyes are the last thing Beleg sees before all the world goes dark about him.


	7. touch me like you do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _day #7 prompt: free choice_

I miss you, dearheart, every night. My heart is bereft without your wit, your intellect, your conviction, to buoy it; my bed is empty without you to help me fill it, and I think that affairs may remain this way for the remainder of time, for I can imagine no other who could conceivably take your place.

But still. Some nights I feel your absence more keenly than others, and tonight is one of those nights. 

It is a silly holiday, dearheart - something so asinine that even I cannot discern how the people of Numenor came by it. The premise seems to be that if the people dress as things they are not, then the demons who seek their souls will not recognize them, and thus will pass them by. So the good folk of Numenor all create outlandish costumes, and cavort in the streets, and go from home to home demanding gifts and tribute. 

It is all so quaint, my love, and I do so wish that you were still with me to see it all firsthand! How loudly you would have laughed to see them, dearheart - how fiercely you would have argued for people doing as they pleased, so long as no one came to harm, and how fully you would have thrown yourself into the study of this tradition and all the customs from which it might have come! How easily you would have laughed away my disinterest; how quickly you would have persuaded me to care!

And oh how deeply, fiercely, wholly I do miss you, this night of all nights especially!

But you are not here, of course, and in your continued absence - oh, my love, how easy it is for my thoughts to take a darker turn. I wish things between us need not have ended the way that they did, for I miss your great heart and your easy smile and your warm hands. 

But there, at least, I may have some small consolation, for I kept all of these things with me when you died. Though of course they do not hold the same charm when you are no longer here animate them - to smile with these teeth or hold me with these hands or let me lay my head atop your chest and listen to the steady tempo of this heart - it is better, I suppose, to have these empty things than to have nothing left at all. I would be bereft entirely.

And so, the teeth I keep among my finery, and tuck amidst my clothing to keep some piece of you close at all times; the hands, I have encased in silver and wear as clasps upon the breast of my finest cloak, in honor of your father-name. The heart, though, I have had preserved, and it rests upon a cushion at my bedside - the closest, I sometimes fear, that I will ever come to having you there with me again.

Why, my love, did you have to tear us apart in this way? I will never understand your choice that day, but I do of course honor it, as by the remnants of your body I also honor you. 

Rest well wherever you are, my darling, and know that I will come for you again someday.

_ Annatar  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding a note here: the wonderfully creepy visual of Celebrimbor’s hands being preserved came from a tumblr post a while back, I think from @radioactive-earthshine? Thank you for such a haunting image that I have not forgotten it, like two years later


End file.
